Seven for a Secret (16 page)

“When you told Agnes what you overheard in Francio’s kitchen, was that the last time you saw her?”

“Yes, excellency. It was the very day I made the delivery. Otherwise, I would never have remembered even those few verses. I never could memorize my Homer, the seas like wine and such. Agnes talked about your house often. She thinks…thought…of it as home. I tried to give her and her mother a home, but my house is hardly comparable to a mansion on the palace grounds.”

“It’s understandable, Opilio. We all remember places where we were happy. What else did you talk about?”

The sausage maker sighed and blinked his suddenly brimming eyes. “Nothing of great importance. We argued and she left.”

“Did she ever mention gossip about Theodora having a son? Troilus said it was the sort of thing that’s bandied about.”

“That’s just the kind of scandal that fool Troilus would relish believing, Lord Chamberlain, and about as authentic as those curiosities he sells. Why don’t you talk to Menander?”

Opilio’s shoulders heaved as he suppressed a sob. “Please, excellency. I would like to close my shop now. I must arrange my niece’s funeral. Where is she?”

“The funeral has already taken place, Opilio. I will tell you where she is buried so you can visit her grave.”

***

The boy barreled down the stairway leading up to the floor on which Menander lived.

John stepped aside to avoid a collision and grabbed a flapping sleeve, restraining the boy from crashing into Peter, laboring up behind.

“If you’re here to see Menander, he’s at home, but in no state for nothing,” the boy blurted out.

“Explain,” John demanded.

“He’s drunk again. Took me ages to get him upstairs.”

John released the boy who bounded away, almost knocking Peter down.

Menander’s door was locked. John hammered on it until he heard shuffling on the other side.

“Who’s that? Forgot something?” The words were slurred. “Wait…”

The door came open to reveal white-haired Menander wobbling from foot to foot, gazing down toward where a boy’s head should have been. He jerked his gaze up, gave a startled gasp, and staggered back.

His heel snagged on a rumpled garment and he toppled over into the glittering wall of treasures that bisected the room, dislodging a rectangular object.

Menander made a clumsy grab at it and missed. The artifact hit a small table and vanished in a tinkling burst of color.

Menander stared down in horror at bits of glass littering the embroidered wall hanging which served for a floor covering.

“There’s a day! I have lost a day of my life,” he wailed.

John realized the object had been the changeable mosaic which had startled Crinagoras.

“Surely it wasn’t that valuable?” John replied.

“You would be surprised, Lord Chamberlain. But then, many people have no appreciation for them. Figulus takes full advantage of those of us who retain our appreciation. They cost a hefty sum, but he says he needs the money for a good cause.” Menander suddenly looked around in alarm, as if startled by his own words. “What did I say? I am very tired, excellency. So very tired. You must excuse me.”

John gestured Peter to enter. The old servant glanced around and immediately looked almost as horrified as Menander.

Menander gave a bitter laugh. “Another interview with the Lord Chamberlain? Between you and Procopius I haven’t been so popular at the palace since the day I left.”

Peter’s expression changed to outrage at the manner in which Menander spoke to John.

John ignored it. “Perhaps you have given a fuller account of yourself to Procopius. Did you admit to him what you concealed from me? For example that you knew Glykos’ daughter, Agnes?”

“What? Agnes? I…I…”

“Is the wine clouding your thoughts, Menander? You moved in the same circles and did business with her friend Troilus.”

“When did you ask me about Agnes and Troilus, Lord Chamberlain? Surely I must have mentioned them?”

“What I am interested in now, Menander, are these fanciful tales about Theodora’s son.”

“Procopius badgered me about that as well. It’s an old story. He knew more about it than I do. That’s what I said. I said you have just told me more than I know, Procopius, so go and ask yourself. My advice is to ask Procopius.” Menander swayed.

John blinked. He did not feel too steady on his feet himself. His head began to pound again.

He realized Peter had taken hold of his arm.

“Master, forgive the familiarity but you do not look well. If I may say so, you won’t get any sense out of that old wine-skin.”

“What did you say?” Menander demanded. “Wine-skin? You called me an old wine-skin. Is that my fate? To be insulted by ancient menials?”

“My servant is right, Menander. I will return when you are capable of thinking clearly.”

With the swift change of emotion of the intoxicated, Menander burst into tears. “Ah…my precious icon!” He crumpled to his knees. “A day of my life…gone…And how do I know it won’t be the very day when the tyrant Justinian dies? A day I would have lived to see. Except for this…and now I have lost what would have been the happiest day of my life.”

Chapter Thirty

Peter glanced into John’s bedroom.

Through the crack left by the slightly open door he could see a form on the bed in the shadows.

John had remained in his room all day. It was deeply worrying.

Every time Peter checked, John had been asleep despite the noise caused by the workmen downstairs carting barrels and sacks of tesserae, plaster, and straw through the atrium.

It must have been the blow to the head.

The matter worried him. Long ago during his military days, a soldier Peter knew had been struck on the head by a Persian sword. It seemed the blow had left the man unharmed. For two days he showed his helmet around camp. The force of the blow had split it open.

It had been a miracle.

But on the morning of the third day, while the soldier filled his bowl with gruel and described yet again how he prayed each day to the military saints Sergius and Bacchus, he dropped dead.

This is how close to death we all are, Peter thought. We never can be certain we will finish our breakfast.

Death was close to old men such as himself. Some nights, alone in his room with the lamp extinguished and the only light that which came through his tiny window, the faint effulgence of the city, light from thousands of torches under colonnades and the glowing dome of the Great Church, Peter could sense the Angel of Death standing on the other side of his door. He would hold his breath, praying silently, waiting for the knock none could refuse to answer.

He heard nothing, could see nothing. Yet he could feel a presence. So far the angel had always chosen to go away.

Peter peeked around the edge of John’s door, reassured when he saw John’s chest rising and falling as he breathed.

He intended to prepare the sweetened cakes John liked but had found the jug of honey on the kitchen shelf was almost empty. Fortunately there was more in the storeroom at the back of the house.

Peter went downstairs. He wondered how the work was progressing. He’d be happy when he no longer had to repeatedly sweep away the straw and plaster dust the workmen dropped.

He sighed. Once again muddy footsteps pointed the way to the bath. Worse, the mud had been smeared all over the floor by whatever the inconsiderate fellow had dragged behind him.

Peter clucked in annoyance, then stopped himself. Cornelia might be in earshot.

Her residence in the house made him self conscious. He no longer felt free to sing his favorite hymns while he worked. The house had changed since she had arrived. He never knew when he was going to run into her rounding a corner or coming out a room. She was a kind woman, if ill tempered, he thought with a smile, and devoted to John.

For that latter he was grateful.

However, he knew both he and his master had become used to their solitude.

It was true that John had hired the Egyptian girl, Hypatia, who had once worked in the same household as Peter in the days when they were both slaves. But now she worked in the palace gardens.

He wondered if she might be persuaded to return.

Peter’s trips in search of fresh produce took longer now. He had found a new market, farther away than the one he usually frequented, which, he had convinced himself, sold superior leeks. He also spent more time in the garden, trying without success to keep alive the herbs Hypatia had planted.

Perhaps John would ask her to return. Anyone who had lived in a house such as this would be dissatisfied with a cramped room elsewhere.

Perhaps…

The artisans were finished for the day, but had left tools and material littered along the hallway.

Good workmen would not be so careless with their tools, Peter thought as he picked his way between barrels.

Peter paused and glanced around.

Not that the mistress could have any objection to his checking to see how far the delicate task had progressed.

He opened the door and entered.

The activities portrayed in the mosaics, he noted, were shocking. Not anything a good Christian would take pleasure from. He hadn’t seen their like outside a brothel.

His lips tightened as he suppressed a smile. The room always reminded him of an incident from his youth involving a pretty servant and his owner’s bath. At the time he had cursed his stupidity for inviting punishment for the sake of a brief tryst with a girl he had never seen again.

Now, decades later, he could recall the young lady down to the smallest detail—and often did—while he could not even bring to mind the vaguest image of his owner’s face.

The Lord would forgive him. After all, it was the Lord who chose to make young people the way He had.

Red light from the dying sun spilled down from the circular opening in the roof and caught the voluptuous torso of a marble Aphrodite, sparkled across a heedless couple depicted on the wall behind her, and limned the figure seated in the basin at her feet.

Peter stepped forward and took a closer look.

An old man sat at the bottom, a big fellow with a craggy face and bushy, white hair. A purplish bruise circled his neck.

His eyes were wide open but he was not looking at anything so earthly as the mosaics. He was clearly dead.

Chapter Thirty-One

The official sent by the Master of the Offices climbed out of the basin in John’s private bath. “Menander, you say? I seem to recall the name.”

The man’s pinched features suggested he had suffered long employment by the prickly administrator. “A little too vocal about the emperor’s revenue raising methods, wasn’t he?” he added. “I suppose it’s Menander who got the last laugh. He ended his days in the palace after all. I don’t suspect you, Lord Chamberlain. I’m certain you have a servant who would do the job. Some sturdy, youthful fellow.”

The official glanced at Peter who stood on the other side of the room, alongside Cornelia and Anatolius, both of whom had walked in on the unexpected drama. If there had ever been so many people in the tiny facility before it had been during the tax collector’s ownership.

“I can assure you John didn’t kill Menander,” Cornelia flared. “Or for that matter order his death.”

“Makes no difference to me,” the official replied. “It would if it was Theodora lying there. A Lord Chamberlain’s free to remove anyone who troubles him so long as the disappearance doesn’t displease the emperor.”

While his assistants wrapped the body in a length of canvas, the official studied the wall mosaics. His pained expression didn’t change.

The body was pulled up out of the basin and strapped to a board. Before long Menander, the official, and his assistants vanished down the hallway, Peter leading them.

“It’s not Peter’s fault,” Cornelia said. “He tried to keep an eye on the comings and goings today but there’s only one of him. Not that I’d want an army of servants underfoot. It would make me nervous to have people waiting on me.”

Anatolius laughed. “I’ve never seen such a household. You’re both better suited to be hermits. A nice cave or a pillar might do.”

“I wouldn’t care to live on a pillar,” John told him. “I like to walk while I think.”

As they turned to leave, a glint from the bottom of the basin caught John’s attention. He descended the steps and picked up the object. It must have fallen from Menander’s garments.

A tiny glass portrait of an angel, similar to the icon in his room full of treasures.

“Menander has left a few of his hours behind,” John observed. “He doesn’t need them anymore. If you have a little time to spare, Anatolius, come up to my study.”

Peter had not lit the lamp on John’s desk so John did so. The bawdy gods on the wall mosaic took up where the ones in the bath mosaic had left off. As usual, as her maker had piously arranged, Zoe kept her dark eyes averted from the lewd activity around her, perpetually innocent.

“I visited to inquire about your health, John. Rumor has it you were almost killed.”

“By tomorrow rumor will have me dead. I’ve got a bit of a headache,” he replied.

“If you admit to so much as a headache, you’re far from well.”

“Please sit, Anatolius. You’ll no doubt want to hear about my investigations.”

John recounted his activities since they had last met at the seaside court where they had talked to Procopius. He spoke about his interviews with Troilus and the actress Petronia and how the latter had belatedly offered proof of Troilus’ innocence. He described retracing the route he felt Agnes must have taken from Petronia’s room to the square on the morning of her death, his visits with Opilio the sausage maker and the inebriated Menander. The attack on his person did not feature in his account.

It took a long time. Peter refilled the wine jug twice before John ordered him to bed.

“An untrustworthy bunch,” Anatolius remarked. “I doubt you’ve got the full story out of them even now. This Troilus seems to be in the middle of it all. Everyone you’ve interviewed seems to know him one way or another. Although it appears he couldn’t have committed the murder since I can’t see how a sundial maker could mistake the time. Do you suppose Helias could have been lying about when he saw Troilus dragging that sack in?”

“Helias doesn’t seem to be connected to this affair, except his shop is next to Troilus’ establishment.”

Anatolius grinned. “Well, he might have lied, given he’s caused trouble for Troilus before. At least according to Troilus. And what about the sausage maker?”

“Opilio was trying to protect his niece,” John pointed out.

“And Petronia was just trying to protect Troilus when she neglected to tell you he’d been to her room the morning Agnes was murdered.”

John’s lips tightened into a thin smile. “Unless they were both actually trying to protect themselves and still haven’t given me the full story. Or even the truth.”

“Rather like my clients. People invariably lie to their lawyers. Now there’s no way of telling what, if anything, Menander was still lying about. This Troilus seems a suspicious sort to me, given he just walked into your house the other day. Plus he was doing business with Menander. Was there a quarrel over money from the sales of Menander’s goods?”

“Perhaps.”

“What about that rumor that keeps cropping up, John? The one about Theodora’s alleged son?”

“I’m not sure what to make of that. Troilus was the first to bring it to my attention. I tried to question Menander about the story the last time I spoke to him but he wasn’t as forthcoming as Troilus. Then again, he was very intoxicated. Menander might have been killed by someone who didn’t want him speaking to me about this rumored son. On the other hand, he might have been killed before he could say anything about one of the other plots everyone talks about but nobody takes seriously.”

“Or he might have known something about Agnes or Troilus and had to be silenced.”

“That’s true.”

“But why go to the trouble to deposit Menander in your bath? Not to mention the danger of being discovered in the act.”

“It’s obvious, Anatolius. To link me to the plotters.”

“You think so? If there really were an intrigue and you were involved you would hardly leave a treacherous co-conspirator lying dead around your house. The sea tells no tales for a start.”

“It doesn’t have to make sense as long as it starts people thinking, particularly when their thoughts turn to subjects like treason,” John pointed out. “That’s when reason leaves the room.”

“By people you mean Justinian?”

John nodded. “More than one Lord Chamberlain has overreached himself. The higher the official the more plausible it is he may be working against the emperor. Don’t worry, it would take more than one body in my bath to turn Justinian against me. But I may have to watch my step.”

Anatolius frowned. “You think the murderer was warning you to give up your investigation? But what about the attack? What if that wasn’t a robbery the other night? What if whoever knocked you over the head was interrupted before he could finish the job?”

“It’s a possibility. My guess is that Menander and Agnes were both killed so they couldn’t reveal to me whatever it is they knew. In which case Petronia and Troilus, and Opilio for that matter, might also be in danger. Perhaps that is was why they all tried to avoid telling me anything useful. Perhaps they feared for their lives. You should warn Crinagoras to be careful. He visited Menander’s room with me. And you might be in danger yourself, Anatolius.”

“And don’t forget Cornelia and Peter.”

“I haven’t. I am beginning to feel as if I am carrying the plague.”

Anatolius took a sip of wine. “Do you think there’s something in this business about the empress having an illegitimate son?”

“Judging from how little people have to say about it and how emphatic they are that it means nothing when they are forced to confront the rumor, I would not be surprised.”

“I’ve always considered it as nothing more than a palace legend. The story’s been around forever. I would have thought if there was any substance to it, we would have known the truth of the matter long ago.”

“People don’t usually go searching for the truth about legends. I intend to look into it.”

“You can’t question Menander further.”

“No. But he advised me to ask Procopius, which is what I intend to do.”

John picked up Menander’s angel icon from his desk and turned the tiny artifact around in his hand. “Menander hoarded his time, but he should have been more concerned with his safety. Strange that he should end up in my house, surrounded by Figulus’ mosaics. The last time I saw him he broke one of those changeable mosaics and was lamenting how much time it had cost him. I wonder if he sensed how little he had left?”

“Menander owned a mosaic by Figulus?”

“Yes, about the size of a codex. It turned from a simple cross into something quite obscene, to judge from Crinagoras’ reaction.”

Anatolius looked thoughtful. Then a faint smile quirked his lips. “Now I understand the icon at Isis’ place!”

“Isis has an icon?”

“Indeed she has. It must have been one of Figulus’ works. Mithra only knows what that stern old mosaic holy man got up to in the evenings when the light shifted, particularly since Isis mentioned it probably wasn’t displayed in the best light.”

“Figulus apparently does a brisk trade in those mosaics. When I visited his workshop to see him it was clear from his wife’s reaction that she thought I was looking for one, and that such customers were not at all uncommon.”

“It must be a lucrative business. Isis said hers cost a fortune, and you know she’s not averse to spending lavishly on her decor. But didn’t you tell me Figulus is a pious man?”

“Cornelia says he has tried more than once to persuade her to allow him to fix the bath properly, as he put it, or in other words make the mosaic more proper.”

“Isis said he needed the money for a worthy project,” Anatolius mused. “I wonder what it was?”

“Menander told me the same thing. I wouldn’t have thought Figulus was in financial straits, busy as he seems to be.”

“People will accommodate Lord Chamberlains,” Anatolius pointed out. “But it does seem peculiar. Was it really a coincidence Menander owned one of those mosaics, and ended up murdered and left in your bath? Or that this whole affair is linked to the mosaic on the wall behind you? Could it be that Figulus isn’t raising money for himself?”

John nodded. “I had thought of the possibility. Could he be aiding the conspirators? Helping finance their plans?”

“Those who have lost their position at court tend to be short of money, given everything they used to own is usually in Justinian’s treasury.”

“On the other hand, they may have required another service from Figulus when they realized he had access to my house. Do you suppose it is too late an hour to speak to the mosaic maker again?”